


All Your Stars In View

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artist Draco Malfoy, Dry Humping, Feels, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Nude Modeling, Painting, Portraits, Secondary Theme: Pottermore Fair, Slight Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: Life after the war is difficult for Harry, especially when the only thing that makes him feel better is, oddly enough, being around Malfoy. So when Malfoy asks to paint his portrait, Harry can't refuse, even if it means baring himself in more ways than one.





	All Your Stars In View

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[99](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#).
> 
> Hello prompter!! Thank you for your intriguing and neat prompt - it was the one that took my fancy out of all the fanfair prompts this year, with the image of Draco painting Harry being so striking and lovely, and I do hope you enjoy what I've done with it. <3
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods for running a consistently wonderful fest! And thank you as well to ElleGray for the thorough beta! Title from "The Bird" by Syml.

When Harry died, part of him stopped completely, left behind at Kings Cross with the awful pieces of Voldemort that had been cut out of him.

But he was forced to pick the other parts of himself up and just keep going.

And the rest of the world kept on going too after he died, after the war, after Voldemort. For the most part Harry’s fine—except for that one tiny part of him that has stopped. He has no idea how to start it again, so sometimes he gets lost in time, the frozen part of his soul getting caught on memories like clothes on branches in the Forbidden Forest. Sometimes he forgets where he is, his mind throwing him all the way back to the panic that was the end of the war, to the hardness of lying on the forest floor, to the sheer horror of the Battle at Hogwarts and the blankness of an empty King’s Cross.

And sometimes he wishes ever so faintly that he could stay there, because he’s just so _tired_, tired of pretending to be the Saviour of the Wizarding World and living up to all these expectations when all he wants is to lie down at the Burrow and nap. But he can’t, not with reporters finding him every time he sets foot into public, not with friends and acquaintances owling at any opportunity, and sometimes it’s too much, too much for his brain which has become oh-so-fragile, ready to crumple at any moment—

“Look, Harry!” Hermione whispers, nudging his elbow, and he’s jolted back to the present—a present where he’s sitting in the middle of a crowded Great Hall, starry sky twinkling above and murmuring students surrounding him like a never-ending ocean. “The first years are lining up.” Hermione tilts her head toward the door.

Harry blinks a couple of times and nods, trying his best to focus on the first years as they walk into the Hall. They’re young, so much younger than he remembers being at the time, and in their faces he sees excitement and anxiety and hope. Hope for their futures, of being placed in the same houses as friends, hope for happiness and good fortune and learning about the most wondrous thing possible—magic.

How Harry wishes he could return to those days, when the greatest question was what house he would end up in and whether or not it would be the same as Ron’s. But now his fondest memories are all tinged with sadness at the edges, reminding him of other memories, worse ones, the ones that are bloodstained and jarring. Even though he’s been around Hogwarts a fair amount, especially this past summer while helping to rebuild, there are still times when he looks at the stone floors and can’t shake the memories of screaming, of fire. Of adrenaline and fear being the only thing keeping him standing as spells are flung all around him.

It’s enough to make anyone want to turn around and leave. Harry’s only shouldering through because this is the only path he has left.

“You okay?” Hermione asks, and Harry nods distractedly.

He feels bad. He’s always a bit distracted now because it’s so hard to focus when that tiny part of him feels like it’s never gotten out of bed in the morning, like it’s still asleep and he has to drag it around like a foreign limb. Hermione’s trying, he knows, trying to pretend like nothing has changed and they’re returning for their eighth year like everything is normal, but the absence of Ron is already weighing heavily on both of them.

Ron had accepted the offer from the Aurors right after the war, the offer to enter an expedited training program without his N.E.W.T.s. He begged Harry to join him, but Harry just... couldn’t.

He doesn’t want to fight anyone anymore. He can’t bear it.

It was no question whether or not Hermione would return to school, and Harry figured it was better to join her here than to lie around all day with nothing to dwell on but the war and his own mortality.

Now he’s finally here. But already, he’s starting to get the acute sensation that he doesn’t belong, the awful feeling prickling up and down his spine. He should have graduated in the spring, but he hadn’t—none of them years had. And it’s most awful because this is the only place that’s ever really felt like home, and now he’s a foreign object lodged in its gut, trying his best to stay and fit in even though Hogwarts should have pushed him out into the world of real wizards months ago.

There’s barely room in the Hogwarts class schedule for the eighth years as is, and Harry... Harry’s probably too distracted to really even do well in his courses, but that’s the least of his worries, considering how hard it is just for him to climb out of bed every morning.

The Sorting Hat has started its song, but Harry’s mostly tuned it out. It’s only when there’s an increased murmuring from the students around him that he manages to sit up and start listening.

_“For many months, she was in danger_  
_ Our home, our Hogwarts, from many a stranger_  
_ And Sorting only stops us all_  
_ From uniting together to prevent her fall._  
_ So abandon your prejudice, wars, and hate_  
_ Abandon the things that ensure a fate_  
_ Of distrusting others, and shunning them too_  
_ Abandon your Houses, for they’ll no longer do!”_

Strangely, the Hat pauses, seeming to eye McGonagall—now Headmistress—before opening its mouth again. McGonagall’s eyebrows are arched as high as Harry’s seen them, and a whisper of confusion drifts through Harry’s mind. “_Abandon your Houses_...” It’s a strange song to hear, stranger even than the ones that foretold of war.

Slowly, and more quietly than normal, the Hat ends its piece.

_“Now it’s two years since I last Sorted_  
_ And sadly this year, I have aborted_  
_ My only task, as I was hired_  
_ The Sorting Hat will now retire!”_

The Hat goes silent, inanimate once again.

And the Great Hall erupts into chaos.

“What are you _doing?_” McGonagall hisses at the Hat, striding over to stand in front of it, hands on her hips. But the Hat remains still.

“...no Houses any longer...” “...hoping Mary would be Sorted with us!” “...what do we do?” Snatches of conversation swirl around Harry’s head, and he takes it all in. For once, everyone around him looks just as misplaced as Harry feels. Almost like he fits in.

Hermione’s mouth hangs open. “The Hat... it’s going against the Founders in doing this, isn’t it? I can’t believe it...”

“Does that mean we’re not Gryffindors anymore?” Seamus asks. “Bloody ‘ell...”

But despite the growing commotion going on around him, Harry can’t bring himself to worry. Strangely, as McGonagall huffs and casts a _Sonorus_ to try and bring the students to order, Harry feels a fleeting moment of peace.

xXx

“This is... actually rather nice,” Hermione says, standing next to him in the entrance to their new common room on the fourth floor. Before anyone had realized, the castle had shifted itself around completely, adding spaces and beds where there were none before so that all of the years were bedded together instead of being divided by House. The old common rooms still exist, Harry’s heard, but no one seems to know the passwords and the portraits are refusing all entry.

McGonagall had been furious—mostly because she seemed to think the Hat should have at least given her warning ahead of time—but she’d soon calmed down, and once word of the new common rooms reached her at the end of the feast, she’d announced that class schedules would be arranged by morning and sent them on their way.

Harry surveys their new living quarters. It’s smaller than the Gryffindor common room, all done in sand-colored wood and accented in cornflower blue, soft furniture and low tables scattered around. Despite no longer being in a tower, the room feels more open than he’s used to, possibly due to the one entire wall devoted to a large, floor-to-ceiling set of windows that looks out over the lake. And like Hermione said, it’s nice—much more peaceful and quieter than Harry’s used to.

He kind of appreciates the quiet right now.

“I like it,” Harry declares, shocking even himself. It’s as if the castle had heard him deep inside, crying out that he didn’t belong, and had opened itself up to make room for him.

It’s still his home.

Hermione looks surprised at his eagerness, but she doesn’t remark on it. “I think I like it too,” she says, a fond spark appearing in her eyes that Harry knows she reserves only for Hogwarts and magic. “I’d like to go look at our sleeping quarters—do you mind, Harry?”

Harry shakes his head, gesturing at her to go on, and he heads towards the boys’ quarters himself.

Or—men’s quarters, he supposes. They’re well above legal age now, the few of them that have returned for their eighth year. It strikes Harry as strange. He doesn’t feel old enough to be considered an adult.

“Oy, Harry!” Seamus raises a hand as Harry enters the room, and Harry smiles in what he hopes is a pleasant way and waves back. He’s slightly relieved that the bed next to Seamus seems to be taken already, as Seamus can occasionally talk more than Harry would like, especially considering this is where he’s meant to be sleeping.

Actually, as it turns out, all of the beds seem to be taken except the one second from the end. Harry wonders why for a brief moment until he looks up and realizes that the person perched on the end bed is none other than Draco Malfoy.

Oh.

Fleeting images of the summer past, of seeing Malfoy around the castle, of working with him to rebuild the wards and taking silent lunches with him—all of them spin through Harry’s mind. He thinks of how they’d been paired together because most of the others gave Malfoy the cold shoulder, and Harry just didn’t care. He would’ve preferred Hermione and Ron, of course, but they’d been off tracking down Hermione’s parents.

He thinks of the first time he and Malfoy both sat out on the edge of the lake, late at night, unspeaking—just staring out at the water. The first night when Harry thought that maybe Malfoy might _get_ it, like Malfoy was just as lost as him.

The first night when he thought to himself, in a way that struck him numb, that Malfoy was beautiful.

There were a handful of nights when they came back to the lake, where Harry would sit with Malfoy, never speaking, but feeling comfortable nonetheless. It was a nice way to get away from it all, at least for Harry.

He doesn’t even think Malfoy knows it, but somehow, he transformed into something of a comfort when Harry needed it the most. And Harry’s grateful for that.

He swallows down a lump of nervousness and walks over to his bed. “Hullo,” he says, finally looking up.

But Malfoy won’t look at him.

Harry’s heart sinks.

“Don’t talk to me, Potter,” Malfoy mutters quietly, crossing his arms, still not looking at him.

Panic starts to flutter in Harry’s chest. This isn’t supposed to _be _like this. They can’t go back to fighting, to anger pulsing so strong in Harry’s gut that he can’t control it, that he has no choice but to explode. Harry can’t _do_ this anymore, he can’t uphold this rivalry sparked by everything that he’s trying his damnedest to leave in the past. They’re supposed to be—well not _friends_, not exactly, but they’re not supposed to be _enemies_.

Except now Malfoy finally _is_ looking at him—but only to glare at him like he’s tainting the air just by standing too near, and Harry almost wants to cry.

He breathes in, breathes out, and closes his mouth against the scream that wants to come out. Instead he takes another deep breath and slowly leans down to open his trunk, which has already appeared at the foot of his bed.

He rummages around for his pajamas, and by the time he straightens again Malfoy has left the room, brushing wordlessly past Harry like the last faint summer breeze before fall.

xXx

“What is this again?” Harry asks Hermione, squinting down at his class schedule as they sit with the rest of the eighth years in the Transfiguration classroom. “_Eighth Year Capstone_,” it reads vaguely. It’s certainly nothing he’s ever heard of from older students in the past.

“I already told you, I don’t know!” Hermione says, her face looking pinched as she stares at her own list of courses, full to the brim as usual. Harry doesn’t take it personally; he acknowledged long ago that Hermione hates not knowing things.

“Quiet now,” McGonagall says, tapping her wand against the podium, and the chatter in the room quickly dies down. McGonagall looks over them, something unreadable in her eyes, and lets out a long sigh. “There are thirteen of you,” she says, and Harry skims the room to confirm that it’s indeed true.

Four Gryffindors. Three Ravenclaws. Five Hufflepuffs. And... one Slytherin. Not that they’re in Houses anymore. Not for the first time, Harry finds himself just a bit glad that they haven’t been separated, especially since there are so few of them.

He has to force himself to tear his eyes away from Malfoy, sitting alone in the front row of desks. But it’s hard. His subconscious keeps telling him that if he keeps his eyes on Malfoy at all times, he can avoid him better... right?

Not that he has to _try_ to avoid Malfoy, because Malfoy’s been doing a great job at disappearing completely wherever Harry is, even going to bed so early that Harry only ever sees the outside of his closed bed-curtains at night.

Harry’s tempted to look for him on the Marauder’s Map, to try and see where he goes when Harry can’t find him, but—

But no. He’s not going to obsess over Malfoy, not this year. Especially when Malfoy won’t even speak to him.

He _won’t_.

If only he really believed he could keep that promise. Merlin, he’s so fucked.

“Out of forty students, thirteen of your class returned to complete your final year at Hogwarts,” McGonagall continues, “and we—the professors, that is—we sincerely welcome you all back.” She pauses to give them a brief smile. “Though many of your peers have moved on to other stages in their lives, we appreciate your dedication to this school and to learning. However, the Board of Governors has predicted that several of you will not go on to complete this school year—no need to be alarmed now,” she says, directing her words to Hannah Abbott, who suddenly looks faint. “It is simply the case that several of you have standing job offers, and at this moment, suffice it to say that the wizarding world needs more witches and wizards in the workforce, N.E.W.T.s or no.”

Unspoken is the fact that even Diagon Alley itself is emptier now, its cobbled streets never to be walked again by those who had fallen in the war. Harry swallows hard and tells himself, for the millionth time, that it’s not his fault.

“Thus, it’s not unfathomable that several of you may decide to leave before the year’s end,” McGonagall explains. Briefly, her eyes land on Harry, and he ducks his head, suddenly wishing for his Invisibility cloak.

Adjusting her spectacles, McGonagall looks down at her notes. “So, in light of these facts, I will be leading a specialized course during the first term of this school year. This will be an independent study, and your task will be to select a skill necessary for your desired future career. Then, you will either complete an advanced research paper on that skill or subject, or alternatively you will demonstrate some measure of success in honing the skill itself. Progress will be evaluated weekly through meetings with me, though I encourage you to work through problems with your classmates as well—cheating is certainly not endorsed here, but you will soon find that life involves much more collaboration than you have undertaken in your studies thus far. Understood?”

It sounds simple enough. They have to prepare for their lives now—for life after the war. Beside Harry, Hermione beams in excitement, surely at the prospect of really digging her teeth into research.

But Harry can’t say he shares that enthusiasm.

He’s as directionless as a wizard lost at sea with no wand, and he has absolutely no clue at this point what he wants to do with his life, to the point where the prospect of having to figure it out so quickly threatens to swallow him whole.

He’s not looking forward to this. Not at all.

xXx

“I can’t do this,” Harry says, tossing his book on advanced dueling spells down on the library table and wincing at the subsequent glare in his direction from Madam Pince.

“Oh Harry,” Hermione says soothingly, patting his arm. “It’s the first week. You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t understand,” Harry says. “I don’t have any idea where to start!”

Hermione sighs, rolling her eyes in a way Harry’d like to categorize as fond. “I’ll help you, all right?” she says. “But I’m going to start on my own research first.”

Harry lets out a breath of relief and forces on a smile. “You’re the best, ‘Mione.”

Looking back down at the thick tome in front of her, one of several from a stack that’s already piled up next to her on the table, Hermione smiles back. “I know.”

Harry catches a glimpse of Malfoy’s bright blond head as he passes by briefly a few stacks over, and anxiety stirs inside Harry—but beneath all of that anxiety is a strange glimmer of longing.

He pushes it away and stares back down at his book.

xXx

Every night, Harry draws the bed curtains without seeing hide nor hair of Malfoy, save for across the room in classes or at meals in the now mixed tables of the Great Hall. But even at meals Malfoy eats quickly and alone, even though all the rest of the eighth years have taken to eating together at the end of the old Ravenclaw table. Harry wonders if he’s lonely.

Then he tries to pretend he didn’t just wonder that.

“Still thinks he’s above us, I bet,” Justin Finch-Fletchley says, grabbing a roll from a platter heaped with them and taking a large bite.

“Oh, shut it,” Hermione chastises, rolling her eyes, and talk moves elsewhere. But like so many other times lately, Harry is left behind, mind caught yet again on Draco Malfoy.

He blinks back to the present as they’re walking back to the common room, startled that he’d lost track of so much time. But he can’t help glancing over at Hermione, confused as to why she’d defend Malfoy like she did.

“What?” she asks, catching him looking, but he’s not quite sure what to say.

“Just... thinking about Malfoy, I guess,” he admits.

“Oh, Harry. Are you obsessing over him again?” Hermione asks, looking concerned.

“N-no,” Harry stammers, breaking eye contact. It’s an obvious lie, and anyway, somehow Hermione always knows.

It’s silent for a moment as they both hop over one of the missing steps in the staircase leading to the fourth floor. “He’s... he’s one of us,” Hermione says eventually. “He’s the only Slytherin who returned, you know? And houses aren’t supposed to matter anymore.”

“But he’s still a Death Eater,” Harry points out, even though he doesn’t mean it.

“Was,” Hermione says firmly. “He _was_ a Death Eater. And now he’s one of us, and I for one don’t believe he ever really wanted to be a Death Eater, at any rate.” She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know. It’s just—he came back, y’know? And none of his friends did. I think he probably feels pretty out of place, especially without a house to come back to.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, thinking that he probably understands.

“You were partnered with him during the summer rebuild, right? Occasionally?” Hermione asks, and Harry nods—he’d mentioned it off-handedly to Ron and Hermione, but hadn’t elaborated much. “What... what was he like?”

Harry thinks for a moment. “Quiet,” he says eventually, his thoughts slowly returning to the nights they spent out by the lake. That part, he never told Hermione and Ron about. “I dunno. I sort of thought he changed, but...” He shrugs. “But maybe he hasn’t.”

“I sort of think we’re all different now,” Hermione says, and it’s possibly the truest thing Harry’s heard in a long time. Then she sighs. “I _do_ feel really bad for him, but... I can’t bring myself to go talk to him yet. I wish I could, but, well. He’s... he’s simply one of the people who reminds me most of the war, I suppose.”

Harry thinks of Malfoy calling her a Mudblood, and he thinks of the horrid scar marked on her arm, the curse from Bellatrix Lestrange that she won’t ever manage to get rid of.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand in solidarity. He doesn’t blame her.

Hermione squeezes his hand back, her lips pursing. “I understand being lonely though,” she admits quietly. “I miss Ron.”

They reach the common room door, and Harry lets go of her hand, reaching up to knock a pattern along the vines climbing the old creaky tree in the portrait in front of them. The vines rustle, twisting around each other, and then all at once they part to allow them entrance. “Me too,” he says, and means it.

xXx

Harry awakens from a nightmare, lungs poised to scream, and has to force himself to relax. It’s certainly not the first time he’s grateful for Silencing Charms at night, not even the first time this week, and he’s barely been back for three days now.

Except when he opens his eyes, he’s not alone like he normally is. Draco Malfoy is standing at his bedside, holding the curtain open with one hand, looking annoyed—and ah, shit, the charm must not have been set after all.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, voice hoarse. He clears his throat, then wonders when he began apologizing to someone who can’t even stand to be in the same room with him.

Malfoy opens his mouth, but clicks it closed and looks away. “It’s fine. I was already awake.”

Harry hasn’t yet thought up a reply when Malfoy drops the curtain, turning away as it falls closed.

Harry hates that he maybe wanted him to stay.

xXx

Harry blinks himself out of a daydream during DADA just in time to see Hermione looking at him, worry in her eyes. “I’m fine,” he mouths, and really, he is. Only, he’s fixating on Malfoy again, which he’d sworn he wouldn’t do—but that was before last night, waking up to see him there in the darkness.

There’s an odd flutter in his chest that he immediately pushes far, far away and resolves to forget about as soon as possible.

And he succeeds, for the most part. He even manages to stop thinking about Malfoy long enough to take notes in the rest of his classes, which is more than he’s managed the past couple of days. Things are going swimmingly until he’s walking back from combined seventh and eighth year Care of Magical Creatures, his only class without Hermione, and finds Malfoy waiting for him outside the school entrance.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, pale against the stone of the castle, and Harry’s heart flips.

Reluctantly, Harry steps closer, a sense of foreboding coming over him. Here it comes—Malfoy’s probably had enough of giving him the silent treatment, and now he’s going to start ridiculing him, now he’s going to pick a fight and Harry can’t do this, he _can’t_, not with someone he’d honestly stopped hating months ago—

Harry braces himself.

“Potter,” Malfoy says again, and without another word, he turns and starts walking briskly toward the lake, gesturing for Harry to follow. Surprised, Harry wonders if this is the best idea but follows anyway, because he’s curious and also because he’s wanted to talk to Malfoy, really _talk_ to him, ever since they got back. Which is stupid, but. He can’t help it.

It’s only then that Harry realizes that for some reason, Malfoy looks just as nervous as he feels.

“What?” Harry says finally, and even manages to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a moment, and they circle the lake until they reach a more secluded embankment.

Their spot. Somewhere, deep inside, Harry knew they’d come here.

Malfoy stops abruptly, several meters from the edge of the water, and Harry nearly bumps into him as he turns around.

He hurriedly takes a step back as Malfoy clears his throat and says, “Listen. I need... a favor.”

Harry stares at him. “Er... what?” he repeats, baffled, because as long as he’s known him, Malfoy has never asked for _favors_.

“Shut up,” Malfoy grumbles.

“I barely said anything!” Harry protests.

“But you were thinking things.”

Well, that’s true enough, so Harry relents, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Out with it, then.”

Malfoy turns to face the lake, holding his robes closed as one of the first stiff breezes of autumn blows over the water at them. “It’s for my Capstone research.”

“Okay, and...?” Harry says, his voice twinging with annoyance. And really, Harry’s not actually as annoyed with Malfoy as he’s pretending to be, but Malfoy deserves it for giving him the cold shoulder for so long.

“Just—let me finish,” Malfoy says. “I’ve decided I’m going to become a portrait artist.”

Harry’s first thought is that Malfoy, with his posh robes and his uptight demeanor, would look rather silly holding a palette and paintbrush, paint splattered all over him. Harry’s second thought is that he knows nothing at all about painting, much less wizarding portraits. “Erm,” he says. “I’m afraid I can’t really help—”

“Let me paint you,” Malfoy blurts out.

“I—_what_?” Harry says, now utterly confused. Out of all the things he could have expected to hear from Malfoy after two weeks of silence, this is certainly the least of them.

“You’re starting to sound like a broken record, you know,” Malfoy points out.

Harry makes a face at him and kicks at a rock on the ground. It skitters off into the lake, and he turns to watch it sink. “I’m a bit surprised you know what a broken record sounds like.”

“My mother was partial to leaving records on for me as a child,” Malfoy says, shrugging in way of answer. “Sometimes they would skip while my parents were away and couldn’t cast _Reparo_ for me.”

Harry files that bit of information away in the section for useless trivia in his mind, then sighs, actually considering Malfoy’s request. “Why should I let you? Paint me, I mean?”

Malfoy swallows. “You shouldn’t. Obviously.” At Harry’s bewildered look, he shakes his head a little. “I mean, you have no reason to. Except that I can’t ask anyone else, so I’m asking you.”

“Loads of people go to this school,” Harry points out. “You could ask any of them. Ask a first year. They don’t know you.”

“They do too,” Malfoy says. “Word travels fast, and it’s not like it’s a secret—you’re the savior, and I’m scum of the earth. Obviously.” He scoffs, possibly at himself, and turns to walk away. “You know what? Forget it, Potter. This was a stupid idea anyway.”

“Wait,” Harry says, and Malfoy stops. It takes Harry a moment to speak—the words building up in his chest are ones he’s terrified to let go.

He takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t think you’re scum of the earth.”

“Hmph.” Malfoy crosses his arms, but he looks caught off guard, as if the world beneath him has shifted.

“I just...” Harry’s mouth threatens to clamp shut, and he has to force the words out. “You’ve been—you’ve been avoiding me.”

Malfoy actually looks a bit sorry. He shrugs. “I’ve been avoiding everyone.”

“But we were...” Harry trails off, because he really has no way to qualify that, and he can’t explain to Malfoy just how damned much it meant to him that Malfoy kept him company over the summer.

Malfoy never made him talk. Malfoy let him think through everything that happened in the war, and sit with it, and then put some of it slowly to rest, letting him imagine sinking it all to the bottom of the lake.

And Harry really fucking needed that this summer.

His breath catches. “We didn’t hate each other,” he says finally, because that’s the truth.

“No,” Malfoy says, looking at the ground. “But you’re Harry Potter, and I’m Draco Malfoy.”

_But that doesn’t mean anything_, Harry wants to say. But he can’t.

He looks away. “The portrait,” he says instead, heart pounding in his chest. “I’ll... I’ll do it. But—you have to tell me why you’re really asking.”

Malfoy flinches as if the question hurts him, and Harry briefly regrets asking. He knows that feeling all too well—everyone always asks him way too many questions, about Voldemort and his magic and the war, and Harry sure as hell doesn’t know how to answer.

“I can’t tell you why,” Malfoy says, and Harry believes him. “I can’t tell you... not—not all of it, at least. It’s personal.”

Harry swallows, wondering why Malfoy’s answer feels so important to him. Maybe because he’s always craved, deep down, to figure Malfoy out, to dig under his skin and figure out what makes him tick. “Tell me some of it, then.”

Again, Malfoy looks nervous, and Harry thinks of a time when he’d seen Malfoy crying into the sink of Myrtle’s bathroom, a time when Harry had done something absolutely unforgivable. He has to physically shake the image of Malfoy, bleeding so, so red on the bathroom floor, as far out of his head as he can get it.

“Wizarding portraits survive forever, you know,” Malfoy says finally. “They can be damned near indestructible, depending on how they’re made.”

Harry thinks of the painting of Walburga Black, stuck to the wall of Grimmauld Place, and nods. Still, he doesn’t see what it has to do with him.

“There are loads of portraits that we could do without,” Malfoy says. “Some of my family, for instance. They don’t deserve it. But you...” He sighs, shakes his head, and turns to walk away again.

“Malfoy, wait—”

“You deserve to have your portrait painted,” Malfoy says over his shoulder, and then he leaves, footsteps crunching up the gravel path.

Harry watches him go, heart beating unsteadily in his chest, as he tries to decipher exactly what Malfoy means by that.

xXx

“Harry, I’ve got—oh, where are you going?” Hermione asks the next night, bright-eyed, books held out toward him. “I’ve got some resources for your capstone research that I think would be helpful!”

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” Harry says, and means it. “I’m, er, going to the kitchens. Didn’t eat enough during dinner.” It’s only a partial lie—he often doesn’t have much of an appetite, depending on how stuck in the past he is that day. It’s just that he was never planning on going to the kitchens.

“Oh, all right,” Hermione says. “Mind bringing me a Butterbeer?”

“Sure,” Harry says, then reaches to take the books from her. “I might be gone for a bit. I, er, want to study some.”

“Okay,” Hermione says, and her nose is deep in her book again before Harry even reaches the common room door.

Knowing he’ll forget if he leaves it until later, he stops by the kitchens, chatting briefly with Kreacher and accepting a sandwich as another elf fetches him a warm Butterbeer for Hermione. On second thought, he asks for a couple more bottles, then debates internally about giving the third one to Malfoy the entire time he spends walking to the seventh floor classroom they’d agreed to meet in.

Malfoy’s there already, canvas set up several feet away from a chair in the middle of the room, the other desks pushed to the side. The sky is dark outside the windows, so Malfoy seems to have taken the liberty of lighting several extra torches.

“Here,” Harry says, shoving the extra Butterbeer toward him before he can take it back. Malfoy gives him a look that’s two parts confusion and one part fear. “Oh, Merlin’s sake—I’m not poisoning you or anything, okay? I told Hermione I was going to the kitchens, and she wanted one, so I... took extra.”

Malfoy relaxes minutely, and Harry feels a strange relief. “All right. Um... thanks,” Malfoy says. The word sounds strange falling from his lips.

“Sure,” Harry says, then takes a swig of his own bottle, sighing at the pleasure from the warmth of it in his throat before sitting down in the chair beyond the canvas. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that Malfoy’s put a cushioning charm on it. “How long d’you think the painting will take?”

“Probably an hour or so,” Malfoy says, though he doesn’t seem confident about it.

It’s then that Harry looks around and notices that neither paint nor a single brush seems to be present. “Did you, er, forget your supplies?”

“Of course not,” Malfoy snaps, and oh, there’s the Malfoy Harry remembers. “Wizards paint with their wands, obviously.”

Harry thinks about that. Then he snorts.

“Shut _up_, Potter. Not everything is an innuendo,” Malfoy grumbles, and Harry lets out a laugh at the pink in Malfoy’s cheeks. “Are you twelve? Do I need to Silence you?”

“No,” Harry says, deigning to give Malfoy half an eye roll and leaving it at that. “So... do you need me to pose in a certain way, or what?”

“Just sit whichever way is comfortable,” Malfoy says, and picks up his wand, the same Hawthorne wand that Harry had returned to him after the war. For once, the memory doesn’t drag him backwards, but that probably has to do with the fact that Harry’s beginning to get nervous about being painted.

He’s never really liked having all the focus on himself.

But he deserved to be painted, Malfoy said.

Harry had spent all night thinking about those words, in-between the fits of sleep he’s used to struggling with, and he still hasn’t come close to figuring out why Malfoy of all people would have told him such a thing. Malfoy has never bought into the whole _Chosen One_ tripe, and so Harry can’t fathom why he would suddenly think so highly of him.

At least there were no nightmares last night—just thoughts of this new, strange Malfoy, who doesn’t want to kill him or punch him or even sling insults at him like he once did; one who somehow actually wants to talk to Harry.

“Okay,” Malfoy says, and then again, “Okay.”

And then he starts.

xXx

“Malfoy?” Harry says hesitantly. Malfoy’s done with the painting, or at least he seems to be—he’s put down his wand arm and stopped murmuring strings of incantations, anyway. Except he’s still staring intently at the canvas, saying nothing at all, and after another moment, Harry tries again. “Malfoy? Can I... see?”

Slowly, Malfoy shakes his head. “No.”

“...Why not?”

“Because it’s bloody awful,” Malfoy spits out, turning away from the canvas.

Harry stands, stretching his legs out. “It can’t be that bad,” he says, walking over to look despite Malfoy’s warning.

Except it is that bad.

Actually, it’s _terrible_. Harry thinks that probably he could’ve done better at the age of five, using the art set he fished out of the rubbish bin when Dudley decided he didn’t want it anymore. There’s colors, yes, but they’re not blended at all, and it’s barely more than a stick figure, the face a mere blob. Harry can barely make out what are supposed to be his glasses, much less recognize anything else.

He swallows back a laugh. “It, er. It’s... abstract?”

Malfoy gives him a dark look.

Harry fumbles with the hem of his sleeve, looking again at the picture. “It’s not moving.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Malfoy says, then raises his wand and Vanishes it with a tight slash. “Portraits move. This wasn’t a portrait—it was a mistake.”

Alarmed, Harry stares at the place where the canvas used to be. “It’s... it’s a start, right?”

“No!” Malfoy bites out. “It’s _nothing_, Potter. I can’t make a career out of this—I can’t... I can’t.”

Malfoy’s desperation strikes a chord in Harry’s chest, and Harry’s heart hurts. It reminds him of the part of himself that whispers, in the back of his mind, that his only purpose in life was killing Voldemort.

Now that it’s done, he’s useless.

He has to force himself to stop thinking like that.

“Listen,” he says quietly, taking in Malfoy’s posture, fierce and fragile all at once. Maybe Harry will regret this. But he’s already made up his mind. “It’s all right with me if—if you wanted to try again?”

Malfoy looks startled. “Why would you do that?” he asks, sounding numb. “There’s no point.”

Harry shrugs, fumbling for an answer. “I’m... bored, I guess,” he says, which isn’t really true.

But there’s no way he’s going to explain that—for some strange bloody reason—he just really wants to be around Malfoy right now.

Being with him makes Harry feel things again. And that’s something he’s been missing lately, yearning for, even. Not to mention he’s very sure that Malfoy will stop wanting to be around him as soon as he finishes his final portrait, so Harry has to cling to the flashes of odd warmth in his chest that their interactions give him while he can.

“Fine,” Malfoy says sharply, as if Harry isn’t doing him a favor. Harry almost opens his mouth to say so, except then Malfoy closes his eyes and says, more quietly, “Fine. I... thanks, Potter.”

xXx

It’s been just over an hour by the time Harry returns to the common room. Malfoy stayed behind to clean up, and Harry’s grateful—he’s not sure what he would’ve said if Hermione saw them walking back in together. He’s definitely not ready for the questions that would bring.

Unfortunately, he’s forgotten entirely about the other questions Hermione might ask.

“Did you read anything useful?” Hermione asks, taking the Butterbeer he hands her, and he nearly chokes. He’d forgotten he told her he was going to be studying.

He glances down at the books she’d given him. One is a book on defensive spells and wards; the other is a memoir written by a famous medieval witch thought to have developed _Expelliarmus_.

In another time, Harry would have been excited to read both of them.

Now he’s not sure he ever wants to think about dueling again.

He fights down the panic that threatens to rise in his chest. More than anything, he doesn’t want to let anyone down, least of all Hermione and Ron, and they both think he’s going into the Aurors after school. Hence the books Hermione gave him with so much hope in her eyes.

But he _can’t_. He just... can’t.

“I... I don’t think I want to be an Auror,” he admits, pain in his throat as he looks up at Hermione.

It’s the first time he’s said it aloud.

Everyone assumed that Harry would finish his eighth year, that he would join the Aurors alongside Ron as soon as possible, taking up the position Kingsley had offered him just after the war ended. And Harry went along with all the assumptions, because being an Auror is what he always wanted to do—except now it’s quite possibly the _last_ thing he wants.

He kind of can’t believe it’s taken him this long to figure that out.

His stomach churns as he realizes he’ll have to break the news to Ron at some point.

He expects Hermione to try to convince him otherwise, to ask him if he’s sure, because this is a big decision. He knows that. But instead, Hermione just nods. “Okay,” she says, and pats the seat next to her.

Oh.

It’s... it’s okay.

“This doesn’t change the fact that you still need to make progress on your capstone topic,” Hermione tells him matter-of-factly as he sits down. “I’ll help you find more books once you decide on a different one, okay?”

Her words leave Harry with the feeling that, somehow, this might actually end up all right. So he nods, relaxing next to her, trying to push away the feeling that he’s just thrown away his entire future, that it’s okay, it’s _okay_.

“I’m going to talk about my research now, if that’s all right,” Hermione says, and he nods, thankful to her for giving him an excuse not to speak. “You probably won’t understand much of it, since it’s a fair bit of Runes, but you can ask questions if you’d like to.”

Harry smiles at her gratefully, and then he sits still, listening as she tells him all about her project on runes and Muggleborns and advocacy, staring out the window at the darkness of the lake at night.

He falls asleep next to her in the common room, leaning on her shoulder and dozing off. He wakes when she nudges him and tells him she’s done studying for the night, and when he finally trudges to the men’s quarters, Malfoy’s bed curtains are already long shut.

An odd thought occurs to him that he might have liked to say goodnight to Malfoy before he went to bed.

xXx

“Stop staring at me,” Malfoy mutters. He’s standing stiffly, eyes glued to the canvas in front of him with his wand poised to start painting, but he hasn’t moved for several minutes. It’s as if he’s scared of what moving might bring.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, resisting the urge to stretch. “Only, you haven’t started.”

“I’m aware,” Malfoy states. “I’m _thinking_.”

Harry wonders if he should’ve brought a book to pass the time, though he hasn’t the faintest idea of what he’d actually like to read right now. “Can I help somehow?”

“No,” Malfoy snaps. Then he sighs, bringing his free hand up to rub at his temple. “Merlin. This is impossible.”

“Why are you doing it, then?” Harry asks, wondering if he can get an actual answer. It doesn’t work—Malfoy just glares at him mutely. “Well... maybe you could try a different approach?”

“Like what?” Malfoy arches a brow.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know a thing about painting, I’m afraid.”

“Load of help you are,” Malfoy complains. Shaking his head, he pulls a shrunken book out of his pocket and enlarges it, flipping through its pages. From what Harry can tell, it seems like a beginner’s guide to Wizarding portraits. “Not that this book is much help either, and it was the only one in the library. It’s so damned _vague_.”

“Can I see—”

“No!” Malfoy cuts him off. “Stop being nosy, Potter.”

Harry bites back the retort rising in his chest, and then he has to stifle a laugh too, because he’s just realized that goading Malfoy in this way—without any real heat behind it—is actually somewhat fun. “And here I was thinking you wanted my help.”

“I do. Just sit there and shut up,” Malfoy says, eyes tracing his lines on the page in front of him. And then he freezes. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake—” He stops mid-sentence, slamming the book shut and beginning to pace. “Absolutely _not_.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, hopping out of his chair.

“Nothing,” Malfoy tells him shortly, turning so that Harry can’t see the book, but Harry steps around him, trying to grab for it. “Stop—_stop it_, Potter!”

“Shouldn’t you follow the instructions, though?” Harry asks tritely, barely concealing a grin as Malfoy dances backwards to try and avoid him.

“Not when the instructions are as idiotic as you are—Potter, would you _stop _that—all right, _fine._ I’ll tell you, now would you quit already?”

Harry stands down, finally unable to hide the grin on his face. “Fine. Prick.”

“Wanker.” Malfoy shrinks the book and stuffs it into his pocket, hopping up onto one of the desks behind him. “Look. I’ll tell you what it says, but we’re _not _doing it. I’ll figure something else out.”

“All right,” Harry says, retreating to his chair. “So?”

Malfoy lets out a long sigh. “Painting is complex.”

“I think that’s rather obvious, given your first go around,” Harry quips.

“All right, yes, it was horrible, let’s not revisit that,” Malfoy says huffily. “What I was _saying_ is that painting is complex, and the human body is also fairly complicated, so it’s easier for beginners to start without being hindered by... visual obstructions.”

Harry blinks at him. “Er, what does that mean?”

Malfoy gives him a look, as if he’s waiting for him to figure it out. But Harry simply scratches his head. “Oh for fuck’s sake—” Malfoy sucks in a breath, and then he speaks very quickly—“It means it’s easier to learn painting if the subject isn’t wearing clothing.”

Oh. Well, that’s...

Rather hilarious, actually.

And even more hilarious is the way Malfoy seems embarrassed to even have spoken those words, which is why Harry lets out a laugh and starts to undo his tie.

“No, Potter—don’t even think about it!” Malfoy says hurriedly, jumping off the desk and stretching out his hand to stop him.

“Why not?” Harry asks, arching a brow. “It’ll help, right?” Swiftly, he unloops the tie from around his neck, draping it over the chair behind him before undoing his robes.

“It’s _idiotic_, that’s why—Potter, what are you _doing?_”

“I’m helping you learn painting,” Harry says, peeling his robes off and dropping them to the ground. Then he starts tugging at his undershirt, and Malfoy makes an indignant noise.

“Potter, I swear, if you don’t stop...” Malfoy says, seeming almost frantic, and Harry pauses. Malfoy’s face is flushed, which is rather amusing in the moment, and Harry marvels that if he’d known taking his clothes off was enough to render Malfoy speechless, he might’ve tried it ages ago.

“You’ll what?” Harry asks.

Malfoy clamps his mouth shut, refusing to look at him.

So Harry grins and strips off his shirt.

“_Stop it_, Potter!”

The tremble in Malfoy’s voice gives him pause. Harry looks at him, furrowing his brow, his shirt hanging from his fingertips. “Malfoy... are you all right?”

“I’m _fine_, Malfoy says, still pointedly looking away. “I’m fine, and—” His throat makes a small clicking noise. “...And I’m gay, Pottter.”

Deep inside Harry, something clicks into place.

“So you should... you should stop,” Malfoy says, looking mortified, and then he buries his face in his hands.

Harry stares at him in wonder, unsure of what to say.

“I’ve never told anyone but Mother that,” Malfoy mumbles a moment later. “Fucking Potter.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, suddenly feeling ashamed. “I’m sorry—you didn’t have to tell me.”

“It’s fine. I don’t care,” Malfoy says, looking very much like he _does_ care.

Harry has to resist the sudden, bizarre urge to walk over and comfort him—to _hug_ him or something, Merlin. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Malfoy looks smaller than usual as he says, “You better not.”

“And if it helps...” Harry bites his lip, suddenly feeling cold and much more vulnerable than when he’d begun taking his clothes off. “I am too, y’know. Well, bi at least, but. Yeah.”

Malfoy looks off-balance. “Oh.”

“Also, I don’t really care if you see me naked,” Harry says, then winces at his own brashness, even though really, he doesn’t care—he’d stopped being bothered about nudity sometime between his second and third year using the Quidditch locker rooms.

Except suddenly thoughts of being naked in front of Malfoy in situations that don’t at _all _involve painting decide to flash through his brain, and he flushes brightly, oh Merlin—he sure hopes Malfoy can’t see.

“You... don’t mind?” Malfoy asks, and he’s still not looking at Harry but he does raise his head.

“No,” Harry says, feeling shaky. But then a thought appears in his head, sobering him. He bites his lip and then says it—“At any rate, it’s not like you could possibly be attracted to me.”

Immediately, his throat starts to ache, which means for some bloody reason, he kind of _wants_ Malfoy to be attracted to him.

Which is _ridiculous_. He’s not going to start liking Malfoy of all people—Malfoy is absolutely off limits for so many reasons that Harry can’t even count them. He needs to get rid of these thoughts immediately, because having thoughts like this about Malfoy—prickly, aloof, ex-Death Eater Malfoy—would absolutely kill him.

Mostly because those sorts of thoughts are almost certainly unrequited.

And Malfoy’s barely speaking to him as it is. Harry doesn’t need to upset the fragile balance of their almost-friendship any more than he already is, because more than anything he just wants to be near Malfoy.

Which, now that he thinks on it, kind of sounds like he_ likes_ him or something.

Well, fuck.

Malfoy scoffs. “Of course I’m not attracted to you,” he says, and Harry has to hide the way his heart twists uncomfortably in his chest. “You’re a git, Potter.”

“Well, good,” Harry says trying to keep his voice from coming out shaky. “You can paint me, then. With my clothes off.”

It’s worth saying it to see Malfoy’s eye twitch. Harry laughs, and Malfoy lets out a long-winded sigh. “You’re the most bloody insufferable man I’ve ever met, do you know?” Malfoy mutters, scowling. “Fine.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up—he’s actually a bit surprised that Malfoy would agree to this. But Harry’s the one who dug himself into this hole, and he’s going to see it through.

For the painting, of course.

So he slips his hands downward, feeling much more nervous than when he’d started, and starts to unbutton his trousers. Thank God he’s not turned on right now, because he doesn’t think he could bear the embarrassment of getting hard in front of Malfoy.

He sort of wishes Malfoy were taking his clothes off too—then he forbids himself from wishing that, because the thought of Malfoy naked and vulnerable in front of him fills him with too much longing to bear.

“You—you don’t have to take your pants off,” Malfoy interjects quickly as Harry shucks his trousers off and away. Malfoy’s very obviously avoiding looking at him—

And then Malfoy _does_ look at him, and Harry has to will away the thrum of lust that hits him when he locks eyes with Malfoy—no, no, absolutely not. He _cannot_ get an erection right now. Quickly, he fumbles for a memory of something to distract himself, settling on trying to imagine Hagrid and Madame Maxine going at it—which thankfully turns him off almost immediately.

Stripped to his boxer shorts, Harry sits down in his chair, watching as Malfoy finally draws his wand again. Then Malfoy takes a deep breath and utters his first incantation.

And Harry’s eyes widen in awe.

The first time Malfoy painted him, it had seemed choppy and forced. There were plenty of gaps and pauses as Malfoy scratched his face and stared at the canvas, muttering things to himself.

This time is different.

It seems more like a dance than a set of charms, as Malfoy flicks his wand seamlessly over the canvas, and Harry can actually almost _see_ the magic building up as Malfoy weaves spell after spell together. He sees Malfoy grin in delight as the magic _takes_ this time in a way it hadn’t before.

It’s sort of beautiful, honestly.

And Harry’s surprised to realize that at some point he stopped feeling embarrassed sitting here. Somehow all his vulnerability has fallen away, replaced by a sense of wonder as Malfoy’s spells flash against the canvas.

Every now and then, Malfoy’s eyes lift to meet his, and Harry feels a brief touch of Malfoy’s magic sliding over his skin.

He doesn’t dare think about the tingle of warmth that makes him feel.

It seems like mere minutes have passed when Malfoy declares it finished, though Harry knows it’s been more than an hour.

Malfoy lets out a groan, then. “It’s still rubbish,” he says, looking defeated as he lowers his wand.

“Is it any better, though?” Harry asks, reaching over to grab his shirt—he’d started getting a bit cold toward the end there. He’ll have to remember to use a warming charm next time.

_Next time._

He intends to do this again, then, because he’s such a glutton for punishment. Predictable.

“Barely,” Malfoy says, though he can’t seem to mask the small bit of hope in his voice. “I suppose—I suppose it helped.”

“Okay,” Harry says, ignoring the sense of yearning stretching its claws in his chest as he watches Malfoy unsuccessfully try to mask his enthusiasm. “Then we’ll... we’ll keep trying, all right?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy says, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and then he smiles—actually smiles—at Harry.

Merlin, Harry likes that. He really likes that.

xXx

“Harry? Harry, are you in there?” Hermione waves her hand in front of his face.

“Oh—sorry,” he apologizes, sitting up in the uncomfortable library chair he’d been slouched in. The book in front of him is still lying open on its first page, his parchment for his Transfiguration essay completely blank. Making a face, he glances at the clock—he really ought to get started since it’s due tomorrow morning.

Hermione aims an odd look at him before going back to her own essay, already halfway done. “You were smiling.”

It’s a bit sad that Harry smiling is such a strange occurrence that Hermione’s called it out. Harry shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Just daydreaming.”

“Mhmm,” Hermione says, sounding as if she somehow can see right through him, and he hurriedly flips to the right chapter in his book so he can start working on his essay before she asks him any more questions.

“Hullo, ‘Mione, Harry,” says a familiar voice as someone walks up to their table.

“Hey Gin,” Hermione says, giving her a one-armed hug.

Ginny smiles, patting Harry on the shoulder as she passes to catch up to her friends, and he gives her a brief smile back. There’s no bad blood between them, for which Harry’s glad, as the last thing he needs is awkwardness between him and the Weasleys. Ginny sits with them in the couple of classes she shares with him and Hermione, and he’s even friendly enough with her to speak in the halls. It’s loads better than back when he’d avoided Cho like Spattergroit, doing so every time he saw her for nearly a year after they dated.

He turns back to his essay, managing to jot down a few sentences before Hermione says, “Hmm.”

Oh, no. Hermione’s thinking. That’s not a good thing, at least not when Harry’s love life is concerned. “What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Well, it’s certainly not Ginny you were smiling about,” Hermione says primly, somehow managing to make him flush without even looking up from her paper—which is ridiculous, anyway, as he’s not crushing on anyone. He’s _not_. He has no need to feel embarrassed.

“It’s nothing,” he says, ignoring Hermione’s arched brow as he picks up the book in front of him.

It’s only that he knows Hermione will chide him mercilessly if she finds out he’s obsessing over Malfoy again. That’s why he’s hiding it from her.

xXx

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Harry asks. The thought had dawned on him earlier today, and he spent the whole evening mulling it over.

“What doesn’t?” Malfoy asks, straightening a fresh canvas on his easel.

“Me, er. Taking my clothes off.”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy says, looking like he’s only half listening.

Harry feels relieved. “Okay,” he says. Then he sucks in a breath and starts undoing the buttons on the shirt he’d changed into after dinner.

When he looks up, Malfoy is staring at him.

“Er,” Harry starts, and Malfoy seems to snap out of it.

“Just hurry up, Potter, I haven’t got all night,” Malfoy says, turning away. “I’ve only done half of my Herbology assignment, and I need to write up the Capstone topic description for McGonagall tomorrow.”

Harry freezes. He’d finished the Herbology assignment earlier with help from Hermione, thank goodness, but he’d completely forgotten about picking a career topic for his project. “Ah, fuck,” he swears, thoughts scrambling as he finishes undressing and sits in the chair.

“What?” Malfoy asks, eyeing him strangely as he draws his wand.

“It’s nothing. Just... I haven’t got a topic,” Harry admits.

Malfoy stills. “Really?”

Harry shakes his head, sighing. “I don’t really have anything I want to do after Hogwarts.” Not anymore. The war’s taken care of that.

“Hm.” Malfoy begins painting, and Harry assumes that the conversation is over until Malfoy pauses briefly in his spellcasting. “You should look into broom manufacturing. It’s rather interesting.”

Then Malfoy continues his casting, and Harry is left with a heat in his veins that has nothing to do with the warming charm he cast before he undressed.

xXx

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to research my topic,” Harry says, feeling breathless as he sits down in the chair opposite McGonagall in her office. “I only just sort of figured it out.”

“Really?” McGonagall asks, repositioning her glasses with a notepad in hand. “Potter, I thought you wanted to be an Auror.”

“I used to,” Harry says sheepishly. “It’s just...” He trails off, not sure how to explain it.

“No need to justify your choice, Potter,” McGonagall says, ticking something off on her sheet. “Well then, tell me about your current topic.”

Harry sighs in relief, pulling out his notes on the tenants of broomstick manufacturing that Hermione had helped him research late last night.

When he’s done speaking, McGonagall makes one last note on her clipboard. “Very well,” she says. “Your choice of topic is satisfactory—but prepare better for our next meeting, do you understand? And don’t go relying on Miss Granger for all of your research, either.”

Harry ducks his head, embarrassed, but smiles nonetheless.

xXx

Hermione stays behind during their last class of the day to speak to Professor Sprout, so Harry heads into the Great Hall for dinner alone. He starts walking to his usual spot without thinking much of it, but then his eyes betray him by landing on Malfoy, eating alone at the old Slytherin table.

Harry stops, wars with himself internally for a good minute, and then swallows down a gulp of nervousness and goes to sit with Malfoy.

“Do you mind? I’m trying to eat,” Malfoy says by way of greeting as Harry sits down.

“Yeah? Well, so am I,” Harry says, trying and failing not to be offended.

He _wants_ Malfoy to like him, as much as he hates it. And not even necessarily _like_ him, like him. Just... like him as a friend, even. That would be enough.

His palms tingle as he loads a portion of mashed potatoes onto his plate, despite suddenly feeling not hungry. But if he doesn’t eat, then he’ll no longer have an excuse to be here with Malfoy, so he forces himself to dig in.

It takes him a moment to realize Malfoy has put his fork down.

“Listen,” Malfoy says, and there’s venom in his voice, a sense of anger he hasn’t felt from Malfoy since before the war ended. “You’re doing me a favor and I thanked you for it. That doesn’t make me your fucking _charity case_.”

Harry stares at him, dumbfounded. “You’re not—I wasn’t—”

“Right,” Malfoy says snidely. “But here you are, sitting with me in public and pretending that people aren’t going to _praise_ you for it later, for taking pity on the poor Death Eater—I’m not going to stand for it. I’m not your next _Weasley_.”

And with a huff and a swirl of his robes, Malfoy stands up, leaving Harry with his blood running cold.

Harry is absolutely fuming by the time they’re supposed to meet for the portrait, and he stalks up to the classroom Malfoy paints in. He’s angry, angry at Malfoy, but he’s angrier at himself for even _hoping_ that they could somehow be friends, hoping that maybe Malfoy had changed, that there could be something—

Something _more_.

But there’s not. Malfoy’s still the bigoted, awful bastard he always was.

He throws open the door, taking small pleasure in the way it makes Malfoy jump. “You are _nothing_ like Ron. You think I’m friends with him because, what, he’s poor and I feel sorry for him? That’s so _stupid!_”

“No,” Malfoy says, his tone mocking. “You’re friends with him because you’ve got a savior complex bigger than the castle grounds.”

Harry resists the urge to kick something. “I do _not_. I mean, okay, I like to help people, but that’s not something you’re allowed to make fun of me for! And what about you? You _asked_ _me_ for help.”

“Because I was taking advantage,” Malfoy says airily, crossing his arms. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“And how does that make you any better than me?!” Harry asks, then squeezes his eyes shut. This is so _stupid_. He doesn’t want to fight anymore—he really fucking hates feeling like he’s going to explode, because every time he explodes his life gets a whole lot worse. He shakes his head tightly, turning around. “_Obviously_ you don’t appreciate me taking the time to help you out, so I’m leaving.”

“Potter, wait—”

Harry walks away without another word.

xXx

He tosses and turns that night, feeling torn and desperate and alone, hating the fact that Malfoy sleeps only a few metres away.

But this is the only way he can get rid of his growing feelings for Malfoy. This is for the better. He has to push him out before Malfoy consumes him like he’s done so many times before, except in a way so much more dangerous because the moment Malfoy turns on him again, Harry knows it will break him.

It scares him how intensely and utterly he feels drawn to Malfoy, as if some deep urge within him has finally woken, the backlash from seven years of fighting hitting him in the chest.

This isn’t what he wants. And Malfoy is a prick, anyway.

An hour later, he groans, sitting up in bed because it’s obvious he won’t be getting any sleep tonight.

Immediately, he looks over and sees that Malfoy’s bed is empty, bed-curtains draped open. And just as immediately, he wonders where exactly Malfoy went.

Damnit, damnit... _Merlin_.

Harry makes the stupid decision to go and find him.

He doesn’t have to go far. Malfoy is sitting alone in the common room, on the floor by the window, staring out at the lake. Dimly, Harry remembers that the Slytherin common room also borders the lake, showcasing its depths and the lazy movement of the water. He wonders if Malfoy misses it.

He has to remind himself he’s not supposed to care.

But he walks closer anyway, watching as Malfoy’s spine stiffens.

“Potter,” Malfoy says softly, without turning around. “Go away.”

Instead, Harry sits down a few feet away from him, leaning backwards, his hands pressing into the plush carpet. “How’d you know it was me?”

Malfoy’s jaw visibly clenches. “No one else...” He trails off, shaking his head. “Fuck.”

Harry has the strongest desire to reach out and touch him.

He won’t, of course. But he stares at Malfoy’s face, his body folded in on itself in the moonlight from the window, and wishes it were okay to want him.

Malfoy rubs at his eyes, silent for a moment, and then he stares out into the grounds. “The painting isn’t really for my capstone project.”

Harry is caught off guard by the change in subject. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it _is_ my choice of topic—but I was going to do it anyway. Learn to paint, I mean.” Malfoy closes his eyes. “My mother is dying.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly, taken aback. “I’m sorry.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Don’t be. You’re the one... that kept us from Azkaban.”

Harry thinks of the trials, of speaking for Malfoy and his mother, of condemning dozens of other Voldemort supporters. Those memories are ones he’d rather forget, sharp and prickling with the pains from those he lost in the war—it hurts too much to think about.

Malfoy starts picking at a stray thread from his pajamas. “My father on the other hand—he’s in Azkaban for life. He’s gone completely insane by now. And that’s what’s killing my mother.”

Oh. Merlin. “That can happen?” Harry asks.

“Magic works in odd, stupid ways,” Malfoy mumbles. “She doesn’t want to be alive without him, awful as he was. So she’s stopped casting, and her magic is shriveling up. And when your magic dies, well...” He shrugs. “It’s so tightly wound up into our systems that it’ll kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, even though Malfoy had told him not to. “That sounds horrid.”

“It is,” Malfoy says, looking pained. “Mother’s the only person I really have left. Vince is dead, and Greg and Pansy went off to France... but I’m stuck here, and when she dies, I’ll—I’ll have nothing.”

Harry’s heart hurts for him. “Is... is that why you want to paint?”

Slowly, Malfoy nods. Harry pretends not to notice that his lip is trembling. “She’s always wanted her portrait done. And I—I need something left of her, because I don’t know what I’ll do when she’s gone, I can’t... I can’t bear the thought of that. Fuck.” He sighs harshly, his eyes looking suspiciously wet. “I wasn’t lying before, you know. When I told you I was taking advantage of you.”

“Oh,” Harry says, but he can’t find it in himself to be angry anymore. It’s all leeched away, tempered by the hunch of Malfoy’s shoulders and the tremble in his jaw.

“I knew you would say yes when I asked about the portrait,” Malfoy tells him. “I knew you would help me. But I really hoped to be able to learn quickly and have it be over with, so I could...” He sighs. “So I could stop bothering you. Except I’m bloody useless at painting, and now you’re—I don’t even know what you’re doing. You’re being _nice_ to me. But you can’t be nice to me, you understand, Potter?” His voice is suddenly rough.

“Why... why not?” Harry asks, because he _doesn’t_ understand.

“Because—” Malfoy cuts off, putting a knuckle to his mouth. “Because I don’t fucking deserve that.”

Harry looks at him and feels a pulse of desperation, of longing to reach over and hold him, because—because _God_, he wants to comfort him—Malfoy _does_ deserve kindness, he really does.

But Harry can’t touch him. It would be absurd, and he wants to, but he _can’t_. Malfoy would hate it.

So he lies back on the carpet, staring up at where the ceiling meets the edge of the window, where he can see all the stars twinkling brightly around the moon. He wonders where Draco is—the constellation, that is—but he doesn’t think he’d be able to pick it out even if it were in view. Like many things in school, he was always rubbish at Astronomy.

He was mostly only good at killing Voldemort.

“I don’t feel like I deserve much of anything,” he says eventually. “But here I am.”

“What? Why?” Malfoy scoffs, his brow wrinkling. “Everyone loves you, Potter. You saved the whole fucking wizarding world.”

“But I’ve finished that,” Harry says bitterly, the self-loathing he’s been trying so hard to beat back rising like magma in a volcano. “I’m finished with my only job, and now I have nothing left except Ron and Hermione and a whole lot of people who don’t see me, who don’t understand at _all_ what it was like. And I’m absolutely useless nowadays. I couldn’t even think of my own fucking career topic, I barely remember _anything _from Hogwarts, all because I was too fucking focused on Voldemort... and now I have nothing.”

Malfoy shifts, and in the next moment, he’s lying down too, looking across the carpet at Harry. Then he reaches over and shoves him in the shoulder. “You’re an _idiot_.”

Harry stares at him.

Malfoy takes a breath and continues—“You’re an idiot and a huge fucking git and you deserve the fucking best, Potter. And you’re _not_ useless.” He shuts his eyes, grimacing. “I never said any of that.”

Harry lets out a laugh, surprising himself. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t thank me,” Malfoy says, looking suddenly vulnerable. He tilts his head so that a swathe of moonlight from the window lands over one of his eyes so that it glitters, grey and bright. “I didn’t do anything except make you cross.”

“I’m still a bit...” Harry pauses, trying to think of the right words. “I dunno. Is that what you think of me, what you said earlier? That I’m some smarmy swot who just likes to, I dunno, save people?”

“Honestly? Sometimes,” Malfoy admits. “But I shouldn’t have said some of those things. You’re—” He swallows, hard, and looks as if he wishes he didn’t have to say what he’s currently about to. “You’re the only one here that gives a damn I exist, and I can’t... I can’t piss you off. But I can’t rely on you either, because then you’ll be—you’ll be too important, and when you decide you’ve done your job and helped me learn painting, you’ll leave and...” He clamps his mouth shut. “I’ll stop talking. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Harry says, his heart beating faster than a doxy’s wings. “And other people give a damn, I’m sure of it.”

“They _don’t_. Trust me,” Malfoy says flatly. “Ever wonder what it would be like if you just... disappeared?”

A lump appears in Harry’s throat, because he wishes he doesn’t, but. He does. “All the time,” he says quietly.

Malfoy’s lips twist, and he actually seems sad to hear that. He sighs. “Everyone would notice if you were gone, Potter. A lot of people care about you, if only superficially. Me, on the other hand...” He scoffs bitterly. “Me, they’d be glad to never see again.”

Harry frowns at him. “No, that’s not—that’s not true. I’d notice if you were gone, and—and I wouldn’t be glad.”

“Because you’re _you_,” Malfoy says. “Not because of anything I did.”

“You help me stay grounded,” Harry says, and then flushes, because it’s not something he ever wanted to admit. “I really appreciate that. And you told me to look into broom-making, which really saved my arse with McGonagall, and—and you give me something to look forward to every night.” Then he realizes what he’s just said and flushes brightly. “The, er, the painting, I mean.”

Malfoy looks a bit like he wants to laugh. But then his lips curl into a tired smile. “I told you to stop being nice to me,” he says, looking away. “But... but thank you.”

Harry shrugs it off like it doesn’t mean anything, but his heart aches in his chest, and when he reaches out to briefly touch Malfoy’s arm, Malfoy doesn’t push him away.

xXx

Harry forbids himself from daydreaming about Malfoy while Malfoy is painting. Mostly because the fifth time Malfoy paints him, Harry gets a hard-on in the middle of it and has excuse himself to the loo to avoid Malfoy seeing.

He needs a distraction, and that distraction turns out to be Malfoy himself.

Now that Malfoy’s been practicing more, he’s begun doing the painting charms nonverbally, which besides unfortunately being really bloody attractive is also leaving Malfoy room to occasionally speak as he draws his wand over the canvas.

“...and then there’s a whole slew of charms after the broomstick is cured—it’s fascinating, really,” Harry says, in the middle of recalling one of the books Hermione had given him.

On Malfoy’s face is the scantest of smiles. “Like what?”

“Like—er, never mind. I have to be boring you,” Harry says sheepishly, as he realizes he’s been talking for probably twenty minutes.

“No, no, I’m interested,” Malfoy says, jabbing his wand toward the canvas. He runs his other hand through his hair, and Harry bites back another rush of attraction, hurriedly focusing on the floor.

He’s not thinking about Malfoy. He’s not thinking about Malfoy.

He stretches out his arms, briefly distracted by watching Malfoy paint. “D’you... d’you think we’re friends now?”

Malfoy breaks into a coughing fit. “Potter, you’ve made me mess up.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, watching as Malfoy casts the distinctive swirl that Harry knows from asking acts as the ‘undo’ charm. When Malfoy doesn’t answer his question, continuing with the painting instead, Harry continues speaking. “I mean, I’ve come here every other night for a couple of weeks now, and... I dunno. I just thought we ought to be friends now.”

Lowering his arm, Malfoy sighs, giving him a weary look. “I thought I _told_ you—”

“—Not to be nice to you,” Harry finishes, “I know. But since when have I ever listened to you?”

“I suppose that’s true, but.” Malfoy stops talking, shrinking in on himself, and it takes Harry a second to realize he looks rather terrified. “Listen, Potter. My only friends fucked off to France without me, and I’m here alone, and I can’t... I _can’t_ bear that again—”

“I won’t leave,” Harry says. “I won’t leave. I promise.”

Malfoy looks startled, like the doe Harry once caught grazing in Hagrid’s vegetable garden. “Well,” he says slowly. “There’s also the fact that I can’t be friends with you because you won’t listen to me at all times, and I am obviously always right, so. There’s that.” He lifts his wand and starts painting again.

It takes Harry a moment to realize he’s joking.

“No,” Harry says, hiding the slow smile growing on his face. “Hermione’s the one who’s always right.”

“Ah, Granger,” Malfoy says, pausing to consider it. “I suppose you’re correct on that count.” He lifts his wand and draws it across the canvas, a shower of pretty sparks emerging.

“We’re friends,” Harry says, and Malfoy sighs dramatically.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Potter,” he mutters.

He looks pleased nonetheless.

xXx

As it turns out, unfortunately even friendship with Malfoy can’t really help Harry sleep at night, and after the third night in a row of nightmares so bad he can barely sleep at all, Harry goes to see Madame Pomfrey out of desperation.

She clucks at him, casting a couple of diagnostic charms, and Harry’s eyes are drawn to a new scar on her hand—a curse scar.

Harry thinks he remembers seeing her during the Battle, helping to heal those with the worst wounds. She must have gotten caught in the crossfire.

His stomach rolls, and he shuts his eyes and has to think to himself, _not my fault, not my fault_.

She only gives him one vial of Dreamless Sleep, enough for two doses. “It can be addictive if you take it too often. This is not a permanent solution,” she tells him sternly, nightcap tilting to one side as she yawns. “But... for just this once, I’ll give it to you.”

He takes it back to the sleeping quarters and then he perches on the edge of his bed, staring down at the vial. After a moment, he hears rustling and sees that Malfoy is peeking through his bedcurtains. “Oh,” Malfoy says, looking defeated. “Pomfrey wouldn’t give me any of that.”

“She says it’s addictive,” Harry says. The thought scares him. The only way his life could possibly be worse right now would be if he were to go and get addicted to some drug.

Of course, Malfoy could also suddenly decide to never speak to him again, which Harry thinks might hurt him just as badly.

God. He hates this.

But he brings the vial to his lips and swallows a dose of the potion, and then he hands Malfoy the other half.

He lies down and drifts asleep to the sight of Malfoy looking like he wants to cry and mouthing, _“Thank you_.”

xXx

“You can’t sleep either,” Harry says, and Malfoy pauses in the middle of yet another portrait. The paintings are slowly getting better, even Malfoy can admit at this point, but it’s still going to take time before his portraits look like the ones dotted all over the Hogwarts walls.

“No,” Malfoy says, lowering his wand. “I hate sleeping.”

“Why?” Harry says, and ducks his head when Malfoy levels a glare at him. “Never mind.”

“No—ugh,” Malfoy says, crossing his arms around himself. “I just... I never talk about these things.”

“Me neither,” Harry says. He used to, with Hermione, but he thinks it frightens her to know that Harry’s still not really okay, because she always gets this incredibly sad look on her face that Harry honestly never wants to see again. So he’s stopped, mostly, except for when things are bad enough that he absolutely can’t bear them alone.

“When V—when Voldemort lived in the Manor,” Malfoy says, stumbling over his name at first, “The Death Eaters were always around. Whenever I was home, they would barge into my room and jeer at me, and throw jinxes at me when I was walking around, and make fun of me for not completing my—my mission,” he says, his voice growing quiet at the end.

Harry knows. Dumbledore.

“And when I came back to Hogwarts for seventh year, the other students _hated _me, and obviously for good reason. I was—” He stops, seeming shaky, and then his eyes flare and he reaches over and yanks up his own sleeve, baring his faded Mark. “I had this fucking thing.”

Harry can’t keep his eyes off of it, and panic jumps in his throat as he remembers seeing it move, remembers the chill just before Voldemort appeared, remembers Nagini, slithering alongside him, attacking Arthur Weasley, and oh God, oh _God—_

“Potter! Sorry, I’m sorry,” Malfoy says suddenly, shaking his sleeve down again, looking scared.

“It’s—it’s okay,” Harry says. He picks up his wand and casts another warming charm because he suddenly feels chilled.

Malfoy closes his eyes for a second. “Fuck,” he says. “I remind you of the war.”

“Yeah,” Harry admits. He bites his lip. “But so does everything.”

“But I—” Malfoy stops, looking away. “I was the enemy.”

“Do you...” Harry feels suddenly terrified at what he’s about to ask. “Do you still hate Muggles? Or Muggleborns.”

Malfoy shakes his head, slowly at first but growing faster. “No,” he says, “No, I don’t.”

Harry exhales sharply, relieved. “All right,” he says, “then you’re no worse for reminding me about the war than anyone else is.”

“Okay,” Malfoy says, nodding slowly, as if he’s trying to convince himself to believe it. “Okay.”

xXx

The next time Harry gets the courage to sit down at Malfoy’s table at dinner, Malfoy arches his brow but doesn’t try to make him leave.

They eat in silence for several minutes. Eventually Malfoy sighs, looking uncomfortable. “Your friends,” he says quietly. “They’re staring.”

Harry resists the urge to turn around and look at his spot at the end of the old Ravenclaw table. “Is Hermione over there?”

Malfoy briefly raises his eyes to look, then darts his eyes away. “No.”

“Then they’re not really my friends,” Harry says, setting down his fork. “You are.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, and his cheeks go all splotchy. He leans closer to take a banana from the dish by Harry’s elbow, and for a moment Harry smells soap and musk and bizarrely, paint. “What?” Malfoy asks, catching his glance.

“You smell like paint,” Harry says, embarrassed to have been caught.

“And?” Malfoy says, stretching the word out. “I paint rather regularly, if you’ve somehow managed not to notice.”

Harry ignores the fact that Malfoy’s making fun of him. “It’s just—I’ve never seen paint dripping or anything, and it’s never wet by the time I see.

“Drying charms,” Malfoy says, smirking. “Ever heard of them?”

“I—oh, shut up,” Harry mumbles, and Malfoy goes stiff. “No, I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” Malfoy says quietly. “It’s just—Granger’s here. I’ll... leave.”

“Wait,” Harry says hurriedly. “You can stay.”

“But—” Malfoy says, starting to look panicky.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry says. “I promise.” He turns to see as Hermione catches sight of them from where she’s standing at the door. Her eyes meet his, and he tries for a smile.

Though her expression is cautious, she starts walking over anyway.

“Does she know?” Malfoy whispers quietly.

“I told her I’ve been helping you with your project,” Harry says, and he vaguely had, a couple of nights ago. “And that you... you gave me the idea for mine.”

“You treat that like it’s such a big deal,” Malfoy mumbles. “I barely did anything.” And then he stares down at his plate as Hermione takes a seat next to Harry.

_It is a big deal_, Harry wants to tell him, but instead he turns to Hermione and says, “Hullo.”

“Hullo,” Hermione says, putting a bit of corn pudding on her plate. “Malfoy,” she says in greeting, nodding her head.

“Granger,” Malfoy says, and Harry can feel the nervousness radiating off of him.

“How was Runes?” Harry asks Hermione, desperately trying to make the moment feel less awkward.

“It was rather fascinating, actually. We were talking all about ancient rituals—oh,” she says, looking at Malfoy all of a sudden. “How come you’re not taking it anymore? You were always quite good.”

Malfoy opens his mouth and shuts it again, looking stunned at the compliment. “It’s—it’s not necessary for my career field. And I didn’t want as heavy a course-load this year.”

“Hmm,” Hermione says, nodding slowly. “What is your career topic for capstone, anyway? Harry mentioned he was helping you, but he didn’t tell me the particulars.”

“I...” Malfoy looks a bit embarrassed. “I’m learning Wizarding painting.”

“Oh!” Hermione says, her eyes lighting up. “That’s rather difficult, isn’t it?”

Harry chuckles, and Malfoy shoots him a glare. “Come off it, Potter.”

“He was bollocks at it at first,” Harry reveals, barely biting back a laugh as Malfoy kicks him under the table.

“It’s getting there,” Malfoy says defensively.

Hermione looks between them, amused. “Could I see a painting? I could maybe help—”

“No!” both Malfoy and Harry say simultaneously, and Hermione looks a bit hurt. “It’s not—thank you, Granger, but it’s... I don’t want to show anyone at this stage,” Malfoy covers quickly.

Harry hides his sigh of relief when Hermione seems placated at that. He doesn’t want to hear what she would have to say if she knew Malfoy was painting him half-naked.

After a moment, she changes the subject. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asks, pointing further down the table.

Harry turns to see a small gaggle of first years all huddled together, centered around two girls playing Exploding Snap. They’re all in tiny robes bearing the Hogwarts crest, no House colors in sight.

“You wonder if they all would have been friends, had they been separated by House,” Hermione continues. All around them, Harry notices other students, older ones, who are tending to sit by year rather than former House. And something else new—barely anyone sits alone, and the ones who are seem to only be doing so because they’re frantically attempting to finish an assignment.

Without quite realizing it, Harry smiles.

He turns back to look at the first years. As they watch, three others join the table, pushing in to see. One of the two playing, a young girl with a thick braid, pokes her tongue out and reaches for one of the cards. But she must make a wrong move, because all at once the cards explode, and several in the group jump before they all start laughing and chattering with excitement.

“I miss it,” Malfoy says quietly. “Being young.” He looks down at the table. “Given, I was a right arsehole, so it’s probably better I’m not anymore, but.”

“Things change,” Hermione says simply, looking at Malfoy with compassion in her eyes, and Harry is struck by a rush of affection for her.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says honestly, looking up at Hermione. “For how things were.”

Slowly, Hermione nods, reaching sideways to grasp Harry’s hand. She’s trembling a bit, but her voice is sure as she says, “I forgive you.”

xXx

Malfoy’s not in the painting classroom when Harry arrives that night, nor does he appear for the twenty minutes Harry stands waiting, and Harry feels a surge of panic.

He decides to go looking for Malfoy, heading for the dorms first. He’s not there, and Harry grits his teeth, hoping against hope that Malfoy hasn’t left Hogwarts for some reason.

He’d been trying not to do this. But worry nags at him and eventually gets the better of him, so he sighs and gives in, opening the Marauder’s Map for the first time since he’s been back.

He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees Malfoy’s name at their spot by the lake, and he heads over, practically jogging by the time he reaches the grounds. Malfoy is alone there, his back hunched as he sits facing the water, a letter dangling from his fingertips. Harry slows down, catching his breath as he walks closer. “Are you all right?”

Malfoy doesn’t look at him. “She’s getting worse,” he says, his voice cracking, and Harry knows he’s talking about his mother.

Merlin. “I’m—”

“_Don’t_,” Malfoy says, eyes flashing. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

Harry sighs. “Okay.”

He doesn’t quite know what to do, so he sits down, watching as Malfoy takes a shaky breath. “I’m not ready yet,” Malfoy says. “She could go any minute, and I’m not ready yet.”

“Not that this helps,” Harry says. “But I dunno if any of us are ever ready. I wasn’t, when Sirius died.”

“You’re right,” Malfoy says bitterly. “That doesn’t help.”

Harry nearly apologizes, but then he remembers that Malfoy doesn’t want him to and stops himself, looking down at the grass.

When he looks back up again, Malfoy is leaning closer, much closer, and Harry gasps softly. “Malfoy—”

“Let me paint you,” Malfoy says, and then he reaches out and hooks his finger under the hem of Harry’s shirt and Harry’s burning all over, _fuck_—

Malfoy’s closer even still as Harry raises his arms and lets Malfoy pull his shirt off, the cool night air blowing against his skin. He shivers, and Malfoy picks up his wand and casts a warming charm, and then a Notice-Me-Not, and he’s still so close as he reaches for Harry’s trousers—

“Wait,” Harry gasps out, because he’s growing hard, and Malfoy looks terrified and intense all at once as he leans closer and brushes his knuckles against Harry’s erection.

Harry’s hips buck as his blood goes tingly in his veins—and then his brain short-circuits because all of a sudden Malfoy’s on top of him, pushing him over and kissing him, lips cold from the outside air and Harry can’t _think_.

Malfoy slips his tongue, hot and wet, into Harry’s mouth, and Harry presses back with his own, groaning at the sensation. Then Malfoy kisses him again and again, biting at his lips until they feel swollen, and God, Harry nearly thinks he could come from this if they don’t stop soon.

“Okay,” Malfoy says, gasping as he pulls away, and Harry feels a bit hurt until Malfoy leans in and kisses him quickly, once more, looking like he regrets stopping already. Then they’re both breathing hard and staring at one another, the air between them fragile, trembling. “I have to start it—the painting, I have to improve,” Malfoy says, nonetheless looking a bit distraught at having to pull away from Harry.

And Harry starts to laugh. He doesn’t know why he’s laughing, because nothing’s really funny, but then Malfoy joins him and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Malfoy _laugh_ like this before, all full-bellied and warm. Harry wants to touch him so he does, clutching at Malfoy’s forearm, and then Malfoy pulls his forearm away and replaces it with his hand instead, tangling their fingers lazily together.

They finally manage to stop laughing after a moment, and Harry stares at their hands, intertwined. He can feel Malfoy’s pulse, and his breath catches as Malfoy slides his thumb up and down against the back of Harry’s hand, just once, before pulling away.

“I’m going to paint you now,” Malfoy says, lips twitching.

Harry grins at him. “Okay,” he says, and then he stands and shucks off his trousers, not missing Malfoy’s soft inhale or the way his pupils go all large.

Then Malfoy takes the letter, stamped with the St. Mungo’s seal, and Transfigures it into a canvas.

The painting is his best one yet.

xXx

They’re not talking about the kiss, which suits Harry just fine, as he’s not ready to think about what it might mean yet. He’s just happy, really, to finally be able to touch Malfoy, and so sometimes he does, before or after a painting, brushing his fingers against Malfoy’s shoulder or his cheek. Malfoy’s face always goes all pleased for a moment before he rearranges it into something more reserved, and Harry laughs, and sometimes he touches him again just to watch it happen once more.

He’s laughed more in the last few days than he has for months and months.

“Stop,” Malfoy tells him one night, as he starts to undress. “I think I can do it without—” He gestures at Harry’s clothes. “You don’t have to take them off.”

“Oh,” Harry says, feeling vaguely disappointed. So he keeps his robes on, rather wishing he could’ve taken them off, and then maybe taken Malfoy’s off too.

But he’s rewarded hours later, when Malfoy looks at the finished portrait and actually beams.

“It’s not perfect,” Malfoy cautions, as Harry goes to see.

He blinks at the canvas. That’s _him_, messy hair and slight slouch and all_._ “It looks right to me,” he says, starting to grin at Malfoy.

“There’s a couple of little things that are still off,” Malfoy says modestly, but he turns to smile at Harry anyway, looking elated. “Thank you,” he says breathlessly, “for doing this.”

And then Malfoy lifts his wand and casts the spell to make the portrait move.

Harry looks down at himself, encapsulated in time, nothing more than moving paint. But there’s beauty in it, he realizes. The Harry in the portrait is smiling, looking lighter than Harry can ever remember looking in the mirror.

A lump lodges itself in his throat when he realizes that this must be how Malfoy sees him.

“Do you want it?” Malfoy asks, gesturing at the canvas.

“I wouldn’t know where to put it,” Harry tells him honestly. “You can keep it—since it was your first one, and all. Seems like it would be more important to you.”

“People would think me mad,” Malfoy says. “If they saw I had a portrait of you, I mean.”

Harry thinks for a moment. “Put it somewhere nice, then,” he tells him. “I trust your judgement.”

“Something I never thought I would hear,” Malfoy says wryly, and Harry laughs.

They stand there for another moment, and then Malfoy holds out his hand. “Well,” he says, and Harry reaches up to shake it, looking confused. “That’s that, then,” Malfoy says, his eyes slowly growing guarded. “I suppose I won’t need your help anymore.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and the world rolls over beneath his feet. “You don’t want to—practice more?”

“I think it’s time to move on to other subjects,” Malfoy says, his expression blank as he starts packing up his easel. “One can only learn so much painting one person.”

“But,” Harry says, and he can’t think of a way to finish the sentence, his lungs squeezing tight in his chest.

“You should go back to the common room,” Malfoy tells him, looking up at him suddenly, his lips going tight.

Harry can’t move. The weight of the room is crushing him.

“_Potter_,” Malfoy says sternly, and Harry jumps, taking one step back, then two.

And then he turns and walks swiftly away, as fast as he can without actually running, his heart thumping painfully, his throat burning.

_I was taking advantage of you._

He remembers Malfoy saying it.

He remembers not really believing it. But Malfoy was never lying.

The regret punches him in the face. Fuck, he regrets it all—he regrets getting painted and he regrets kissing Malfoy and he regrets not _talking _about it because it hurts, it _hurts_—

He crouches down in an alcove in the hallway, breath coming too too fast, pressing his forehead against the cool stone and trying desperately to swallow down the hurt in his throat.

Tears sting at his eyes.

Now he’s useless to Malfoy too.

xXx

“Where _were_ you?” Malfoy hisses, cornering him outside the Great Hall after dinner the next night.

Harry never came back to the common room the night before. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he wandered the halls instead, avoiding ghosts and Mrs. Norris as he shuffled around with a hole in his chest.

Now he’s exhausted. So exhausted.

He looks at Malfoy dully. “Why the hell do you care?”

Malfoy takes one shaky breath, and then another, and then he walks away, heading out the front entrance onto the grounds.

Against his better judgement, Harry follows him, because he’s so thoroughly fucked that it’s not like it can make things _worse_.

They end up where they always end up, at their spot on the lake, and Harry wants to cry because he’ll never be able to come here again, not with the memories they’ve imprinted in the cool earth, of Malfoy’s eyes and hands and mouth all on him.

“Going back to ignoring me, are we?” Harry says bitterly, and Malfoy glares at him.

“Shut up.”

“Or maybe we’ll go back to insulting each other all the time. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Harry, shut _up_.” Malfoy stops, looking frightened. “I take that back.”

Harry’s mind whirls. “Harry,” he says, taking a step closer. “You called me—”

“I didn’t _mean_ it,” Malfoy says unconvincingly.

Harry’s breath goes all ragged. “I could punch you.”

“You should,” Malfoy says. “I’d deserve it.”

“_No_,” Harry says. “We’re not doing this.”

“Then what?” Malfoy spits out. “I _told_ you, Potter. I can’t rely on you.”

The switch back to his surname hits Harry as if Malfoy had gone and punched him anyway. “You’re a bloody _coward_.”

“You don’t think I know that?!” Malfoy glares at him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m in love with you,” Harry says. And then he chokes, because he hadn’t meant to say it, he _hadn’t meant to say it—_

“Potter,” Malfoy says, his mouth going slack. Then he shakes his head, his eyes going all sad. “Potter, no.”

“Malfoy—” Harry can’t breathe, he can’t, and Malfoy’s reaching out and clutching at his shoulders, holding him steady until the world stops spinning.

“You can be you without me,” Malfoy says, looking him in the eyes. He pulls his hands away from Harry, and Harry misses them immediately. “We can’t do this, you understand?”

“_Why?_” Harry asks, his voice hoarse.

“Because you’re Harry Potter,” Malfoy tells him, lip trembling. “And I’m Draco Malfoy.”

And Malfoy walks away.

xXx

Harry feels like a ghost.

Sometimes he forgets what time it is, what day it is. Sometimes he turns around and almost swears he can hear screams from the battle. Sometimes all he wants to do is sleep.

Hermione notices, of course she does. Harry tells her it’s nothing, even though she must have an inkling that something happened, since they’re not sitting with Malfoy at dinner any longer.

She makes that face where she’s sad but trying to hide it, and Harry resolves to do better.

He’s not sure how he’s getting his schoolwork done. He expects that Hermione has something to do with it, although when he reads back over his assignments, the content is surprisingly familiar despite sometimes not remembering having written it.

He’s the one avoiding Malfoy now, turning corners so as not to run into him in the halls and timing his bedtime to when he knows Malfoy won’t be there. Dimly, he becomes aware that Malfoy’s probably avoiding him back, but thinking about that hurts even worse so he stops.

Before he knows it, the term is nearly over. He turns his paper in to McGonagall and receives an Acceptable in return—he can deal with that. It was hard enough just to churn the last bit out, let alone feel enthusiastic about it.

He no longer laughs.

But always, always, he lies in bed at night and pines for Draco Malfoy.

xXx

Something’s off.

It’s four in the morning, and Harry’s just woken from a nightmare. Then he steps out to use the loo and promptly realizes that Malfoy’s bed is empty. He’s not usually out of bed at this hour.

Harry uses the loo. He’s not going to go find him. He won’t.

Except he does it anyway.

He finds him in the classroom they did their painting sessions in, the torches low. Malfoy is sitting in one of the chairs, head hanging low, and all of a sudden Harry knows what’s happened.

Feeling gutted, he walks over and sits in the chair next to Malfoy’s. Malfoy’s eyes are rimmed red and swollen, and Harry hurts for him.

He didn’t know he was still capable of hurting for Malfoy, which for some reason makes him hurt more.

“I don’t suppose you’d leave if I told you to,” Malfoy says, his voice a mere rasp.

“No,” Harry says.

Malfoy closes his eyes. “She died peacefully, they said. In her sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, an ache in his teeth. “I know you hate that, but I am.”

“You’re too nice to me,” Malfoy says, and then he’s crying, great, shuddering sobs. “I p-painted her. I w-went—I visited M-Mungo’s this weekend, and she s-sat for me, and—”

“Shh,” Harry says, feeling at a loss, tears pricking at his own eyes as he watches Malfoy crumple. “How was it?”

“It was g-good,” Malfoy says. “She liked it. I told her I p-practiced with you, and—” He stops, shaking his head.

“And what?” Harry prompts.

“She s-said, ‘good for me.’” Malfoy sniffles, and then he rubs at his eyes, hard. “She said she just wanted me to be happy."

“But you don’t know how,” Harry guesses.

“No,” Malfoy answers. “I don’t.”

They’re the same, Harry realizes. They’re the same and he aches to touch Malfoy, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

But he does sit there with Malfoy until dawn starts slanting in through the windows, and then he guides Malfoy back up to bed, watching from his own as Malfoy falls into a restless sleep.

xXx

“Harry—are you sure?” Hermione asks, grabbing his arm as Harry starts walking toward Malfoy’s table at dinner. They’d stopped sitting with Malfoy up to this point at Harry’s request, and Hermione hadn’t asked for an explanation, but Harry knows she was worried all the same.

“His Mum died,” Harry says quietly, and Hermione’s lips round into an ‘o’.

She’s silent for a moment. “I know you want to help him,” she says eventually. “And that’s really awful, but—you can’t keep giving everyone all of you.”

“I don’t,” Harry says, but she gives him a look and he sighs. “Okay. Maybe I do, sometimes.”

“I wish you would just take care of yourself before Malfoy,” Hermione says, but she drops his arm anyway.

Harry sighs, looking over at Malfoy, alone at his table. He hasn’t noticed them yet, and Harry feels a pang of longing, eyes tracing over his blond hair and long fingers, at how he’s barely picking at his food. “I wish I could too,” he says, and then, so quietly he’s not even sure Hermione hears, he continues—“but I’m in love with him.”

Hermione goes through about three different facial expressions before settling on resigned amusement. “Oh, Harry,” she says, and then she steps forward and starts walking to Malfoy’s table.

Harry hastens to follow.

xXx

It’s cold at the lake nowadays. Harry has to renew the warming charms much more frequently than he used to, and Malfoy’s cushioning charms have to be especially strong, but Harry doesn’t mind. It’s enough just to be there with Malfoy, not touching, barely speaking.

Just like the summer.

Until one night, huddled together but not quite touching, when Harry looks up at the sky dotted with stars and asks, “Can you show me Draco?”

Malfoy blinks. “What?”

“The constellation,” Harry explains, cheeks feeling flushed, though that could well be because of the cold that permeates his charm every now and then.

“Oh,” Malfoy says, nodding. “Right.” He leans back, taking out his wand and murmuring a charm, and Harry watches as far above him, a neat outline of the relevant stars is formed, the makings of a dragon in the sky. “You can’t see all of it from here without Astronomy magic, but that’s most of it.”

Harry stares, entranced, tracing the line of stars with his eyes. Malfoy’s—Draco’s—stars. But then he turns to thank him for it and sees that suddenly, Malfoy looks terribly lonely. “Are you all right?” Harry asks, alarmed.

“I’m fine,” Malfoy says, averting his eyes. “Only... Mother used to do this for me.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly, blood pulsing with sadness for him, and without quite thinking, he reaches out to touch Malfoy’s shoulder.

Malfoy looks down at Harry’s hand on his robes, then tilts his head up to meet Harry’s eyes. “You should know,” Malfoy says. “Just... I was thinking that I might not come back to school.”

Harry stares at him. “What?”

“After Christmas,” Malfoy clarifies, looking down at the frosty grass beneath them. “There’s a portrait-maker in France, near Pansy and Greg. I’ve been owling her.”

Hurt, Harry sucks in a breath, pulling his hand away as if he’s been burned. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to be sure,” Malfoy says. “I didn’t know if she would even be willing to take me on.”

“But she is,” Harry says.

His heart sinks when Malfoy nods. “I sent her your painting.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He sticks one hand outside of the warming charm, touching at an icy blade of grass, letting the cold anchor him. “And she liked it?”

“She said I show a lot of promise,” Malfoy says. And then, all in a rush, he adds, “You could come with me.”

Startled, Harry snatches his hand back inside the bubble of the charm, wanting to laugh and cry all at once. “I... I dunno.”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Malfoy says, his expression unsure as he looks at Harry. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go.”

Harry wraps his arms around his knees, looking at Malfoy and wanting, wanting. “I don’t know, he says again, and Malfoy nods.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he repeats.

Silence stretches in the air between them, and then Malfoy takes a deep breath.

“Just know,” Malfoy says. “Just know that I’ll miss you terribly if you’re not there.”

Startled, Harry feels a warm thrum of longing pulse in his chest, and his breath hitches as he looks over at Malfoy, into grey eyes that seem just as vulnerable as Harry does.

He reaches over and traces his knuckle up Malfoy’s warm jawline, pulse racing.

And then Malfoy catches his hand, pulls him closer, and kisses him.

Harry shudders a gasp, kissing back, brushing his lips against Malfoy’s again and again and stifling a moan—Merlin, _finally_.

Very quickly it becomes messy and frantic, bitten lips and brushes of tongue, Harry tugging at Malfoy’s shoulders until their bodies are as close as they can be whilst still sitting up. And then Malfoy lies them down, side by side, and kisses him again, hands tangling into the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, and he has to tear himself away in order to pick up his wand and cast a Notice-Me-Not.

“Put that down,” Malfoy nearly growls, tugging him close again, and Harry _wants_.

But he can’t. Not yet.

“Malfoy,” he tries, but Malfoy kisses him again and he melts. When they break for air, he tries again—“Malfoy, wait.”

“What?” Malfoy asks, breathing heavily.

“We can’t,” Harry says. “I need—I need us to talk about it.”

Malfoy frowns. “What’s there to talk about?” he asks.

“I just,” Harry says, and suddenly he has to blink back unbidden tears. “I just need to know that this is real.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, and his expression turns soft and apologetic. “Harry,” he says then, and Harry’s heart clenches. “It’s always been real.”

“Even when—” Harry tries to say, but his throat gets too tight and then Malfoy is _holding _him, wrapping him up in warm arms, and fuck, Harry loves him.

“Even when I left,” Malfoy says, pressing the words into the skin in front of Harry’s ear. “Every time I left, I wanted to stay.”

“But I’m me,” Harry says. “And you’re you. You always said that.”

“And I’m fucking useless without you,” Malfoy says, sounding pained, and Harry can feel his breath heaving. “You can be you without me, but I... I can’t be me without you.”

“You can,” Harry says, and now Malfoy is the one trembling in his arms, until Harry opens his mouth and adds, “But that doesn’t mean I want you to.”

“_Harry_,” Malfoy says, and then he’s rolling on top of him and kissing him again.

And this time Harry lets him. He lets Malfoy lick into his mouth and shudders a gasp when Malfoy works one knee between his thighs, slowly rocking their hips together, and Harry’s never been more turned on in his life when he bucks his hips and sees Malfoy lift his head and gasp.

Malfoy’s cheeks are all red when Harry flips them over, straddling Malfoy, breathing heavily as he reaches for the clasp on Malfoy’s robes. “I want to see,” he says breathily, because he’s wanted to see Malfoy like this from the moment Harry first bared himself for a painting. Malfoy flushes even further, picking up his wand and doing some sort of complicated movement. Suddenly most of their clothes are several feet away, and they’re down to their pants, God. Harry gasps, taking in smooth pale skin, the scars on Malfoy’s chest and the Mark on his arm.

“It’s okay,” Malfoy says, looking vulnerable anyway.

Harry leans down and sucks at the hollow of Malfoy’s neck, and Malfoy whimpers, pushing up against him. It feels so unbelievably good, the warmth of Malfoy’s body against his, and Harry lies down and pushes his hips against Malfoy’s so that their cocks align.

“_Oh_,” Malfoy gasps. “I can’t believe we’re dry-humping on the fucking grounds.”

“Shall we move somewhere else?” Harry asks, pushing himself up as to move away, and Malfoy glares at him and pulls him back down.

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy says, and then he reaches down and grabs at Harry’s arse, urging him to keep going, until the friction and warmth and pleasure are all too much and Harry cries out, shuddering, spilling against Malfoy.

“Fuck,” Harry says after, and Malfoy groans and flips them over, rutting into Harry’s hip until he comes too, sobbing out a gasp in Harry’s ear.

They lay there for a while after. Malfoy somehow spells their clothes back on, and then Harry curls into his side, even though Malfoy gives him a look that seems both annoyed and fond all at once.

“We just...” Harry says, and starts laughing. “Oh my God.”

“Yes,” Malfoy says, and he rolls his eyes but he’s laughing too. “You better be glad we didn’t get caught, Notice-Me-Not or no.”

Harry grins and leans over to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. “I’d do it again,” he admits.

Hope stirs in Harry’s heart as Malfoy, failing to hide his own smile, says, “I would too.”

xXx

Harry’s never been to France.

He’s nervous and jittery, sitting on the train, thinking about how much he’ll miss Ron and Hermione even though Hermione told him to _go_, _do something for yourself for once! Stop worrying about everyone else!_

He’s still not all right. But he thinks it might be better for him to get away for a while, to leave most of the things that remind him of the war, to sleep somewhere where he hasn’t heard people screaming. Even if it was his home.

He’ll have things to look forward to. France is home to some of the largest broom manufacturing companies in the whole wizarding world, and even though Harry doesn’t quite have a plan yet, he has some ideas, some people to call.

It’s funny, he thinks, that he really did end up being one of the fourteen in their year to leave school early. But he’s not the only one.

Because most important of all, he’s with Malfoy. “You can call me Draco,” Malfoy says from beside him, almost as if he’s answering to Harry’s thoughts. Malfoy looks nervous as he explains, “Since you’re coming with me, you know. You can call me Draco.”

“Oh,” Harry says, savoring the warm happiness that slowly spreads through his chest at that. He thinks of the constellation, shining in the night sky as he laid next to Malfoy—to Draco—out at their spot by the lake. It’s a good memory, one untouched by the war, and he’s grateful for it. “Draco,” he says quietly, almost reverently.

Draco stares at him for a moment, and then he laughs. “That sounds bloody weird.”

“I know,” Harry says, and he laughs too.

He’s on the way to a brand new, unfamiliar place, but as he reaches out to take Draco’s hand, he thinks that he’s never felt more at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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